


I Have a Way with Words (and this is where your heart was won)

by Cosmo_is_Beink_Melon



Series: I Don't Know How My Heart Deceives Me [3]
Category: Captain America (Comics), Marvel 616
Genre: Because it's Zemo, Captain Hydra, Casual Villainy, First Times, Hydra!Stemo, M/M, Making Love, Post-Secret Empire (Marvel), Purple Prose, Reunions, The Author Regrets Nothing, Touch-Starved, baron zemo - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-13
Updated: 2018-07-13
Packaged: 2019-05-29 12:57:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15073631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cosmo_is_Beink_Melon/pseuds/Cosmo_is_Beink_Melon
Summary: It’s no surprise he’d never understood the importance of companionship—the importance of touch—after all, the thirteenth Baron Zemo was born to a singularly isolating sort of greatness and raised in a cold home by distant parents.But then Steven Rogers offered friendship, and more. It shouldn’t have been enough—the hand-holding and kissing—to change a man like Helmut so fundamentally. And yet...there’s no denying he’s been remade by Captain Hydra.Now that Steven has returned from the Shadow Pillar, there's nothing in the world that will stop Helmut from showing his Captain exactly how he feels.





	I Have a Way with Words (and this is where your heart was won)

**Author's Note:**

> It's been a month, but here it is!
> 
> I hope you will enjoy these ebil dorks and the conclusion to their lil' series! <3
> 
>  **WARNING:** If there was ever anyone suited to  purple prose… It’s Baron Helmut Zemo. Read on, but know what you’re getting into. *giggles*

They crash into each other like the clanging of a gong—reverberating in a shared, shaky embrace.  
  
It has been so damnably long since last they were together. The minutes and hours and days and weeks lost, piled torturously high. Hope, which had gone fallow within them, begins to grow anew.  
  
Steven is impatient, claiming Zemo’s lips through the mask. They press together with such force that Helmut will be tasting the fabric for a week, unable to escape the feel of it pressed into his mouth by hungry lips.   
  
Fingers dig in, pulling at clothing not easily removed.   
  
The private hangar on the coast of Bagalia serves as silent witness to their ardor and the way they cling together. Unfortunately, as Helmut hears a soft creak behind him, he realizes there are other witnesses, too. They are minions he had not planned to kill, but now feels he must.  
  
This is a private moment, their own intimate reunion, sullied by the eyes of the hired help.  
  
He cares not for their judgment, such as it may be.  
  
There will come a day when Helmut shouts from the world stage that Steven Rogers, the Hydra Supreme, the True Captain, belongs to him alone—and everyone will know the truth.  
  
But today is not that day.  
  
So Zemo pulls twin Lugers from their holsters and, with quick, neat shots, he takes out the small contingent of loyal Hydra foot soldiers that helped to free Steven from the Shadow Pillar. And when the pilot, foolishly, comes to investigate the racket, Helmut shoots him as well. This final death is a particular shame, for it means he will be forced to fly the plane himself. He had so anticipated unburdened time with Steven.  
  
Steven tugs Helmut’s mask to the bridge of his nose, and Zemo’s breath escapes in a hot, wet gasp. Thrilling to the beat of his racing heart, Helmut throws his arms around Steven’s neck, Lugers still gripped tightly in his hands, and pulls the Captain close, and closer still, until there’s nowhere left to go. Any closer and they might become one being. (Would that be so terrible a fate?)  
  
Zemo clings to Steven’s neck, and kisses the man in a fashion neither gentle nor kind. It is all tongue and teeth, and fueled by a distillation of lifelong loneliness.  
  
Steven groans into his mouth, and kisses back with bruising force.  
  
It’s hardly the reunion Helmut imagined.  
  
It is, however, the reunion he _needs._  
  
“I could stay with you like this all day,” Steven assures Zemo in the small spaces between their frantic kisses. He grins, drawing out a particularly cruel pause. His mouth is so close that when he speaks, his lips brush, feather-light, against Zemo’s. “But the neighborhood’s gone to hell. The litter especially is a bit much.”  
  
Zemo spares only a glance for the bodies surrounding them. He lets out an aggrieved sigh and pulls away, holstering his guns. “Name the destination.”  
  
“Greece,” Steven responds without missing a beat.  
  
Helmut takes Steven’s hand, savors the heft of it, entangling the calloused fingers with his own. This moment he catalogues as an addendum to their laced fingers on the field of battle.   
  
Through these long, lonely months, it’s been nearly too much to believe he would see the Supreme Leader again, much less be able to hold the man’s hand any time he wishes.  
  
“You’re in luck. I happen to have recently acquired—through rather complicated means—a private island near Mykonos that formerly belonged to my father. It has been so long out of Zemo Family hands that I sincerely doubt the False Captain would think to look for us there.” Zemo considers Steven’s bemused expression. “Does that please you?”  
  
“Very much,” Steven says, and he kisses the knuckles of Zemo’s gloved hand.  
  
Once they’ve boarded the small jet, Steven settles himself in the co-pilot’s seat, leaning back and crossing a leg over his knee.  
  
“There are more comfortable places you can rest, Herr Rogers.”  
  
“Nmm.” The denial comes from the back of his throat. He closes his eyes, a broad, peaceful look transforming his face. “Maybe, but I prefer to stay close to you.”  
  
While Steven dozes off and on, Helmut quietly pulls off his glove and lays it over his thigh. Then he reaches out to touch Steven in a million small ways. He runs his fingertips across the man’s knuckles, along his wrist, brushes his face, his hair—fleeting moments of contact, each one helping solidify for Helmut that Steven is _here_.  
  


* * *

  
Rocks crunch under their feet as they trek from the airstrip toward the villa Helmut has not seen since he was a very young man. The terrain is sparse, with patches of greenery along the trail. As they make their way closer to the main house, olive trees begin to appear in small clusters, like old friends gathering to whisper gossip on market day.   
  
Through a gate, the entire world changes.   
  
They are greeted by perfectly cultivated flowers and bushes, and various fruit trees in full bloom. The air is perfumed with the scent of thousands of vigorous blossoms.  
  
Memories come, unbidden, of his mother in the garden, humming a tune that he can’t quite recall. Her skirt blows in the salty breeze. She smiles, and speaks his name. He cannot remember the color of her eyes.   
  
There is much he’s taken for granted in his life—a curse of his station, of his duty and privilege—but he carries a greater appreciation now.  
  
He glances at Steven. He folds away a private smile.  
  
Most certainly a greater appreciation.  
  
“You have newfound and hard-won freedom; not a soul will trouble us here,” Helmut says. “What do you desire? Food? A bath? A comfortable bed? Or, shall we take a walk around the island?”  
  
“A bath,” Steven replies firmly, and Zemo imagines there weren’t many opportunities to bathe in the Shadow Pillar. He should have destroyed that wretched place, torn it down, ground the stones to sand. “I want a _long_ soak in a _hot_ bath.”  
  
“I’ll see to it immediately,” Helmut says.  
  
“Not one of your servants?”  
  
“No,” he replies casually. “I _have_ been known to turn on a faucet from time to time. And for you, I would even go so far as to lay out towels, Captain Rogers, if you so wished.”  
  
“What if I wanted you to join me?”  
  
Helmut considers the question, feeling warmer than indicated by the weather. “To wash your back, I presume?”  
  
“Among other things.”  
  


* * *

 

  
The bathhouse sits in its own building connected to the grand villa by open-air walkway. It is old, but proud, a testament to the opulence of Heinrich’s tastes. Turquoise tiles with gold filigree adorn the walls, interspersed with large reliefs carved from ivory. Columns stand sentry. The fixtures gleam, freshly polished despite the decades since a Zemo last set foot on the property. The high-set windows have recently been cleaned as well, and they let in shafts of light that grace the crystal-clear bathing pool like truth.  
  
Zemo hated this bathhouse as a young boy—had been scared of the gray shadows that lurked in the corners. But as he grew older, he’d found himself enjoying the privacy of the space, away from his studies and lessons. No mother here to harp on him, no father to bury him beneath a landslide of impossible expectations, no flute lessons or horseback riding or sword practice. When he slipped into the water, he was just a young man, weightless, unburdened from his family name.   
  
For a little while at least.  
  
“It’s the same,” Steven muses, gazing at the mineral pool. Rich, blue steps lead down into its warm depths and steam rises in an amorphous mass that swirls playfully.  
  
“What do you mean?”   
  
Zemo turns to face Rogers who has stepped into the large showering area. The Captain begins to remove his clothing without a hint of embarrassment, unmindful, or uncaring, about the effect he’s having on Helmut.  
  
“Your father’s estate,” Steven says. “The Cosmic Cube changed so many things. I thought it might have altered the bathhouse, too. I’m happy it didn’t.”  
  
“You’ve...been here before?”  
  
“When I was young.”  
  
Helmut sighs. “I had so few friends as a child, certainly none my father deemed worthy. But...you, yes, of course, _you_ would have been welcome.”  
  
“It was a great trip, Helmut. Heinrich was busy with work, and we were left to entertain ourselves.”  
  
Helmut’s breath catches as Steven drops his shirt on the small wooden bench beside the sink, and reaches to unbuckle his trousers. He glances at Helmut out of the corner of his eye. Is he checking to see if Helmut is listening? Or to make sure he’s...watching?  
  
Helmut clears his throat and says, with a hint of a thrill, “I suppose that two young men with a mind to do so _could_ get up to quite a lot of mischief in a bathhouse.”  
  
“Could and _did_.”  
  
Steven’s buckle clatters and the slide of leather against fabric as he pulls the belt free chases a chill up Helmut’s spine. He watches with carefully cultivated mild interest as Steven’s fingers unbutton, and then unzip, his fly. And then as casual as you please, Steven steps out of his trousers.  
  
“I admit, I’m almost envious of my younger self.”   
  
He’s well-trained to keep his voice level. To feign indifference. His posture and his voice lie for him, the mask acts as one more layer to obscure the truth. He _wants_ to know more of their story—wants to know about the two young men who stole away to his father’s bathhouse. To know how far those playful, exploratory encounters went.   
  
He dearly envies Steven’s knowledge of their shared past. Envies the man’s possession of the memories the Cosmic Cube stole from him. If he could get his hands on that girl, Kobik, he would take recompense from her—one strip of flesh at a time.  
  
But she lies beyond his grasp, and, at present, beyond the reach of any power he knows or wields.  
  
The rage that threatens to consume him does nothing but erode his precarious self-control.  
  
Steven’s thumbs slip into his underwear—white briefs, of course—and he pushes them down slowly, tantalizingly, until he’s completely exposed.  
  
“I desire…” Helmut tilts his head appreciatively, his eyes fixed on the length of Steven’s body, bared before him. “I desire to make new memories with you, Steven Rogers.”  
  


* * *

  
Helmut burns with curiosity about their time together in Greece, but he’ll not be trapped in a past he can never remember. Especially when the present is so...appealing. He dips a washcloth into the filled basin, the hot, soapy water rushing up past his wrists.   
  
The air is sweet with the scent of soap.  
  
He turns back to Steven, who stands beautifully, perfectly naked before him.  
  
His fingers graze warm skin as he runs the soft washcloth along Steven’s bare shoulder, washing away dirt and sweat and grime. He squeezes the cloth and streams of water flow down Steven’s body to pool at their feet.  
  
Helmut wants to cleanse the man of every awful moment spent in the Shadow Pillar.  
  
He scrubs small circles across the hard muscles of Steven’s back. He coaxes Steven to extend his arms and washes them, pit to fingertip.  
  
“You’ve never done this for me before,” Rogers says. “Not even when we were young.” Helmut gently scrubs down the small of his back, over his perfect, hard rump, down his calves. The soapy water kisses every inch of Steven, and he imagines it foreshadowing his own touch.  
  
“It should go without saying that I’ve never done this for _anyone_.”  
  
There’s a humility in the act of washing another human being. Baron Helmut Zemo, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, getting the leather of his pants wet as he crouches down on one knee to wash Steven’s feet—he can only imagine the bizarre sight he makes. His socks and boots and gloves are placed neatly on the wooden bench next to the disarrayed pile of Steven’s clothing. The upper portion of his body armor hangs from a hook nearby.   
  
Otherwise, he’s fully clothed.  
  
“Turn,” he says, swallowing the ‘please.’ He moderates the phrasing, but a hint of the imperious tone shows through. There is a limit to the servility a man like the Baron can offer.  
  
But then Steven turns and once again Helmut can see the whole of his front, the chiseled cut of his body, that expanse of perfect flesh, his manhood, half-hard, _waiting_. And here he is, on one knee. If he were to remove his mask… if he were to pull Steven closer...  
  
Instead, Helmut draws himself—and the washcloth—up the front of Steven’s body in a slow, meticulous pattern, focusing on his task with perfect control. Sudsy water runs in rivulets down his arms, soaking his rolled sleeves. He watches Rogers through his mask, eyes trained on the man’s face.   
  
He dunks the washcloth into the basin again, and water sloshes over the lip. The tile is slick with suds.  
  
He feels Steven, _wanting_ , when he returns with the washcloth. He can feel the whole, hard length of him. Zemo gently caresses and cleans his Captain’s most intimate regions with the sudsy cloth. The room is too warm. Helmut is too clothed. He’s been alone for too long.  
  
Steven watches him through half-lidded eyes.  
  
What if Helmut were to let the washcloth slip from his fingers? Watch it hit the ground? When he looked up into Steven’s eyes, could he see that subtle shift as the man realized that Helmut was reaching out to touch him—skin to skin?  
  
There would be only the perfect _hardness_ of him. Helmut’s caresses would sharpen into strokes, accentuated by that rhythmic twist of his wrist—the one he uses on himself. Helmut would tease a long, slow groan from Steven’s parted lips and leave the man a shaking mess.  
  
Yes, there’s a humility in washing another human being, but there is power in it as well.  
  
He leaves Steven’s wanting length behind, as if he hadn’t an illicit thought in his mind, and returns to slide up Steven’s belly and chest with the cloth.  
  
“You’re a villain.” Steven’s lips are curled in a conspiratorial smile.  
  
“Oh?”  
  
“Pure. Villainy. Are you so completely disinterested?”  
  
“Quite the opposite,” Zemo says and finds his voice tighter than he anticipated, but the fantasy got to him, and the struggle for control. “But you wanted a _bath_ , if you recall. Not a romp in the shower.”  
  
Helmut steps back to admire his work, appreciating the artistry of Steven’s nude body.   
  
Tiny soap bubbles glisten with iridescent sheen and trail along Rogers’ smooth skin. He reaches out to follow their path, hears Steven’s anticipatory intake of breath, and stops cruelly short.  
  
“You, Captain, are like a statue in the Glyptothek. Not chiseled from stone by a Greek master, though. You were engineered”—Zemo huffs a small laugh—“by a German scientist.”  
  
Helmut turns on the shower, which splutters for a moment before running strong and clear. He monitors the temperature and murmurs when he’s satisfied. Then he steps back and maneuvers Rogers into the spray. Steven groans appreciatively as the water pelts his back. It’s probably the first shower he’s had in months that didn’t involve being stripped by guards and blasted with a firehose.  
  
“Helmut?” Steven says, leaning his head back to wash his hair. “Care to join me?”  
  
Oh, how very much he would.  
  
“Step into the bath, Rogers. I will join you momentarily.”  
  


* * *

  
A moment becomes three, becomes five.  
  
He soaps up.  
  
He rinses off.  
  
And then he dresses.  
  
He’s realized there’s something he must do before _other activities_ can commence. Something important. Something he’s scarcely adept at.   
  
And yet, wholly necessary.  
  
“Helm?”  
  
The diminutive is unfamiliar but...charming. Helmut has never had a nickname before. (One can hardly count ‘Helmy,’ Fixer’s attempt to bait him.)  
  
He steels his resolve and steps calmly out of the shower area.  
  
The bath is large enough to accomodate short laps and Steven makes lazy circles through the water on his back, watching Zemo round the corner. The sight of Steven’s wet skin makes Helmut pause. The man is...tempting.   
  
But first...  
  
Helmut feels as though he has not slept in months, exhaustion permeates the marrow of his bones.  
  
And yet, he has recovered his best friend.  
  
“Why are you dressed?”  
  
“Because this is your bath, Steven, not mine,” Zemo explains, taking a seat on one of the stone benches along the edge of the bath. “Because I must speak with you and I fear I might grow...distracted…in the water.”  
  
Steven swims to the near edge, rests his arms on the side, and watches Helmut with an attentive, inscrutable expression.  
  
Apologies do not come easily to a man like Baron Zemo. But neither pride nor arrogance cause his hesitation. Rather, he is paralyzed by shame. Deep, resonating shame.  
  
His months-long efforts to infiltrate the Shadow Pillar were routinely impeded by outside forces. Between obsessively planning Steven’s rescue and attempting to rebuild the Hydra Empire, Zemo’s coffers, as well as his circle of trusted associates, have dwindled dangerously.  
  
“Do you ever contemplate your worth, Steven?”  
  
“Of course,” Steven replies without hesitation. “I think it’s important to assess your value, especially in terms of what you can give to the cause.”  
  
Hydra. Their mutual love, their mutual passion. The great beast that will devour the world and provide fertile loam for something new—something grand—to grow. _This_ is what he has to offer: a small recompense, he hopes, for taking so long to procure the Captain’s rescue.  
  
“As you might imagine, Steven, our hold grew... _precarious_ while you were away. But we have new alliances. They are...humble, perhaps, but in time—”  
  
“Helmut.”  
  
“And while the Struckers are a family of faithless, incestuous cowards, I’ve reached out to Zola’s daughter, Jet Black, and the girl shows promise—”  
  
“Helmut.”  
  
“But we’ll need finances, of course. A not inconsiderable amount. I’ve a number of lucrative investments set up in Madripoor—”  
  
“ _Helmut_ , stop.”  
  
He stops and he looks and he listens.  
  
The light from the windows falls on Steven’s body, casting his golden hair in fiery relief. The bathwater glistens on his strong shoulders. Helmut desperately wishes he could join his Captain. Would it be enough to provide him succor? Could it break him free from this unbearable cycle of tension and roiling guilt?   
  
“We’re alone in this bathhouse. Just you and me and the water. And instead of being here in my arms, you’re miles away, fully dressed, posing philosophical questions, and talking shop.”  
  
It had been so much easier when they were first reunited. There was no thought, they simply grabbed one another, clung together after a seeming lifetime apart and they kissed in a primal, unpracticed fashion.   
  
Guilt, too, had been notably absent.   
  
“I have known my worth from as far back as I can recall,” Helmut says after a long moment, stubbornly continuing his train of thought. “I am a Zemo. Meant for greatness, born better than all those around me. Because of this, I struggled to reconcile my obvious superiority with my consistent failures.” He pauses for a moment as he chooses his next words. “I believe I now know the reason. With the False Captain as my enemy—and worse, without _you_ as my ally—I _could not_ succeed.”  
  
Steven offers no reply, simply listens. And watches.  
  
“When they took you away from me…” Words pile like pebbles in his chest, each small, practically weightless, but in numbers they multiply, and soon they are crushing him from within. “I am _sorry_ , Steven, truly, that it took so long to secure your escape.”  
  
“Helmut, I survived.”  
  
“You could survive anything, that’s hardly the point! I _failed_ you,” he snaps.  
  
“You’re not understanding me. I survived _because_ of you. You—the thought of you—the thought of _being with you_ again, saw me through all that loneliness and isolation. I wouldn’t have made it without you, old friend.” His voice is steady and strong as he says, “It wasn’t your fault I was captured. Because of you, they never truly held me.”  
  
Absolution.  
  
Zemo does not slump with relief, but the tension in his shoulders ebbs.  
  
“Now, let’s talk about your mask.”  
  
“What of it?”  
  
“You’re still wearing it.” It’s a displeased accusation. “It has to go,” Steven declares firmly. And, “Why do you wear it around me?”  
  
“It is my legacy,” Helmut replies without looking away.  
  
“I’m _desperate_ to see you, Helmut. Is your legacy more important than that?”  
  
Zemo removes the mask without fanfare, laying it neatly beside him on the bench. In this moment he feels more exposed than ever before in his life.   
  
Now, even though the Captain is completely nude, he still holds the high ground.  
  
Foolishness.  
  
Steven has already seen at least part of Zemo’s disfigurement.  
  
But the whole of Helmut’s face must be...shocking. He is a hideous sight. His blonde hair, once so thick, with the slightest wave, is but a memory. His skin is warped and pocked and twisted. These are scars earned while trying to prove himself to the False Captain—not knowing that deep inside, it was his connection to _Steven_ that drew true heroism out of him. He regrets losing his face for the _other_ Rogers, but he would joyfully sacrifice his mind, his body, and his soul for Steven.  
  
Steven gives his scars no more than a cursory glance. He focuses, instead, on Zemo’s eyes.   
  
“So blue. Even bluer than I remember. They were lighter when we were young.”  
  
“Almost gray back then,” Helmut agrees, savoring yet another small detail from their past.  
  
“Gunmetal—gray with blue undertones.”  
  
“Ever the artist, _mein Freund_.”  
  
“I’ve sketched you _a lot_ over the years, Helmut.” A smile slowly parts his lips. “In the early days before we’d confessed our feelings for one another, I was always sketching you. Stealing glances. Jotting down little pictures. Always in secret. Then you found my notebook.“  
  
Zemo raises a brow. “Did I?”  
  
“Yes, and you told me you thought I was talented. The next day there was a set of pastels on my bedside table. And suddenly my artwork had color. That’s why I know: gunmetal gray with cool blue undertones.” His eyes are warm with nostalgia.   
  
“My father was pleased when the color deepened. Blue-eyed blond,” he says. “He always wanted _more_ for me.”  
  
“Your father’s wishes didn’t matter then, and they don’t matter now. Your eyes have always been perfect to me—no matter what color.”  
  
The moment is sweeter than ripe cherries and Zemo savors this connection, and Steven’s affections.   
  
“You should know this, Helmut: I’ll _always_ prefer to see your eyes, your lips, your face. So wear your mask, or don’t, but you know what I want.”  
  
Helmut, master of control, smiles despite himself.  
  
Steven slips back into the water, dunking under for a long moment before emerging and whisking water out of his face. “Okay.”  
  
Helmut raises an brow as Steven makes for the stairs. Water sheets off him as he rises to the walk. He motions for Helmut to follow.  
  
“Come on.”  
  
“You’re done with your bath?”  
  
“Yes,” Steven says. “The minute you decided not to join me, it lost its appeal.”  
  
When Helmut doesn’t move, Steven walks over to him, the man, the god—in all his glory—towering above him. He reaches out for him. “Let’s go, Helmut.”  
  
Baron Zemo takes the offered hand and rises, drawing his mask back on as they step together into the sunlight.  
  


* * *

  
“I cannot believe you left your clothing behind,” he remarks quietly as they walk through the courtyard toward the villa. “There are servants about.”  
  
Steven makes a show of looking around before tossing Helmut a smirk. “I don’t see anyone.”  
  
Had Zemo ever found reason to doubt Steven’s claims about their past, that doubt would have dissipated entirely as the man leads him unerringly, not toward the master suite, but toward Helmut’s childhood bedroom.  
  
The Captain strides with an arrogant confidence. Helmut can detect no sense of shame or fear in him.   
  
It is invigorating, emboldening, to watch.  
  
Almost without thought for consequence, Helmut begins to unfasten his body armor. With only a mild, distracted regret, he drops it to the ground in the corridor.   
  
He continues to follow.  
  
His shirt, his boots, his trousers, they all go the same way.  
  
By the time they reach the room, he wears no more than mask, briefs, and heavy woolen socks.  
  
The room is as he remembers—large and airy. The windows open to a view of the shoreline far below, and in the distance, towering cliffs. Here they are far from the odor of diesel-powered vehicles, and the scent coming through the window is rich and clean. The smell of ocean and of earth.  
  
The familiarity brings Helmut a sense of comfort and peace. When Steven turns to face him, he does not need to request he remove the mask, Zemo simply pulls it off. After that, removing his socks and underwear pose no great difficulty.  
  
Steven catches his chin and leans in close, kissing him with slow, infuriating simplicity. It is scarcely a drop of water, and Helmut, is a man dying of thirst.  
  
The pure _need_ compromises Helmut’s control, and he reaches out, arms encircling Steven’s waist, pulling him close.  
  
All his life, Helmut has endured an uncomfortable relationship with touch, and a scarcity of touch in his relationships. There always seemed to be an invisible, icy barrier between his parents, and between his parents and himself. There were no warm hugs, no kind pats on the back, he cannot remember Heinrich and Hilda Zemo dancing together, holding hands, or kissing. He suspects he was even conceived at arm’s length.  
  
But then there was Steven, the kiss they shared in Leipzig, their clasped hands in D.C., these things have remade him. After that, these months without Steven’s touch—in the isolation that had once been so comfortable—have slowly eroded his soul.  
  
Helmut holds Steven in a bear-trap grip, fingers digging into knotted muscles, and nothing in the world could make him let go.  
  
“It’s all right now, Baron,” Steven murmurs in his ear, soothing him, as if he reads his every thought. He nuzzles Helmut’s neck, then runs his nose along the outer shell of his ear. “We’re together now.”  
  
But it isn’t enough. These kisses, these embraces, they are mere indulgences. Helmut wants more.  
  
_Drain me,_ he wants to say. _Take every part of me. I belong to you._  
  
“I can’t wait to see it,” Steven confides. “To see the rest of you.”  
  
He drags his thumb down the line of Zemo’s jaw, then across his bottom lip. Helmut parts his lips, letting his tongue slip out to taste the salty pad.  
  
“What more of me is there to see?” Helmut questions, his voice a low rasp. He is divested of all his clothing. He is exposed, body and soul.  
  
“The expressions you’ll make when I fill you up.”  
  
Helmut’s laugh is embarrassed and scandalized, but his cock springs to swollen, wanton life, pressing hard into Steven’s thigh.  
  
“Surely you’ve seen them before…”  
  
“That’s the great secret, Helmut. I haven’t. Because _we_ haven’t.”  
  
“Truly?” Zemo’s heart hammers out an ecstatic hope.   
  
Steven shakes his head. His smile is wicked and knowing.   
  
This, finally, is something they can experience first together.  
  
“So...are you ready to make love with me?”   
  
Helmut reaches up, pulling the man in for a kiss. It is a long-form seduction, a lifetime in the making. Zemo sucks on Steven’s bottom lip, nibbling playfully, before pulling away to flash him a mischievous smile.  
  
_Make love…_  
  
Have words ever sounded as sweet?  
  
He nods.  
  
“Good. In that case, Baron, don’t you think we’ve talked enough?”  
  


* * *

  
No experience in Helmut’s life approaches this.  
  
Steven’s body is hard under Helmut’s hands, violent, jagged. He could spend days charting the terrain, exploring the muscles and joints and bones and tendons. From the dizzying heights of the battle-hardened ridges to the secret, shadowed valleys.   
  
Steven’s skin is hot, but goosebumps rise in prickly paths as Helmut sketches out assault routes down his torso.  
  
Zemo has spent a lifetime surrounded by specimens of physical perfection—indeed, he has honed his own body to the same standard, but Steven exceeds them all. It is not only the effects of the Super-Soldier serum, but his carriage, as well. Even lying in bed, with Zemo astride his bared waist, Steven is a model of cool composure. Only the twitch of the Captain’s cock as Zemo leans down to brush his lips against Steven’s nipple, gives the lie to the man’s seeming perfect control.  
  
“ _Du bist perfekt,_ ” **[1]** Steven says in Helmut's mother tongue, his voice husky. It rumbles through Helmut, urging him forward.  
  
“You...speak my very thoughts,” Helmut replies in wonder, drawing back to favor Steven with a smile.   
  
Steven’s hand curls around his hip. The time for lazy exploration is over.  
  
Zemo can feel Steven shifting beneath him and he gasps at that first, gentle, questing pressure. Unerringly, Steven finds his target, and pauses just shy of entry. He teases Helmut, drawing his finger along the line of his hip in a way that makes the muscles of the Baron's abdomen shiver and clinch. He wants more of—and is apprehensive of—the sensation.  
  
“Do you like that, Helmut?”   
  
A strained sound leaves Zemo, an acknowledgement and a plea.  
  
Steven spits into his cupped hand, smirking at Zemo’s confused reaction.  
  
He moistens his fingers and slowly reaches around, pressing just so. Understanding dawns, and Helmut leans forward, burying his face against Steven’s neck. He murmurs low, “I suppose these things are necessary.”  
  
“I’ve had time to think this out,” Steven explains. “I assure you, these things are _very_ necessary.” The tip of his finger breaches Zemo's hole.  
  
Helmut’s gasp is like a shout in the still room.  
  
Steven does not ask if he is ready, and for that, Helmut finds he is grateful.  
  
The Baron is a man well-accustomed to pain—has suffered injuries great and small. But the first thrust of Steven’s spit-slicked... _foil_ …is like being run through. The pain is acute, focusing all his attention to that one raw wound. Helmut sucks in a breath through his teeth, clamping down to weather the assault. Steven, watching Helmut’s face intently, stutters and slows his movement in response. But despite the new gentler flow, Helmut feels himself stretched, burning, in foreign and uncomfortable ways. He focuses on his breathing, on his posture, on his form, on economy of motion and precision, the way he would in battle.  
  
Helmut is determined to acquit himself with honor in this engagement.   
  
No retreat, no surrender.  
  
Steven’s fingers dig into his flanks, hard enough to bruise, and he guides Zemo’s body down slowly to meet his thrust, driving himself even deeper inside. Helmut has relinquished command to Steven, trusting his leadership. His best friend, his brother, his _lover_ , will not lead him astray.   
  
Helmut gasps and moans, riding out the searing, sidelong agony, and even as he does, he is overcome by pleasure.   
  
He is so _full_.  
  
Body.  
  
Heart.  
  
Mind.  
  
Soul.  
  
His entire being hums in resonance with Steven Rogers.  
  
Satisfied, however, he is not. Helmut wants _more_.  
  
He bears down on Steven’s cock, and grunts at the brutal wave of pain that follows.  
  
“Christ.” Steven pants and bucks up into him. “How does that feel, Helmut?” he growls, coaxing low.  
  
“ _More_ , Steven. _Please._ Do not dare stop.”   
  
He wants this. He wants _all_ of this. He wants everything his Captain has to give him. He wants to be broken and remade.  
  
A growl tears free of Steven’s throat and he grabs hold of Zemo, rolling smoothly until Helmut is pinned beneath him. The Captain’s thrusts intensify, until he’s forcing Helmut harshly down into the mattress with every snap of his hips.  
  
Their fingers meet and interlace around Zemo’s own unsheathed blade, and the pressure and force of their joined hands drives Helmut into a frenzy.  
  
“Please... _please_ —!”   
  
“Greedy,” Steven teasingly admonishes.   
  
He does not, could not, deny it.  
  
A prolonged wordless cry escapes Zemo, and Steven covers Helmut's mouth with his own, drinking in the unabashed testament of his ardor. Helmut digs his heels into Steven’s back, thrusting up into their joined hands and then driving his hips down and back into Steven.   
  
Up and back.   
  
Up and back.   
  
If he can, he’ll take Steven in so deep, he’ll finally get his wish and they’ll become indistinguishable, unified.   
  
“So...damn...greedy…”  
  
Helmut’s awareness is reduced to a trinity of points in space. He is their joined hands pressing down on his blade, he is the tight, wanting place that Steven Rogers fills, and he is the sheer agony and bliss of loving. For the first time in his entire life, Baron Helmut Zemo is _love_. And this he feels most of all.  
  
“ _Ich liebe dich!_ ” **[2]** The confession is wrenched from Zemo’s chest, and once out, he can’t stop the flood of words, “ _Ichliebedichichliebedichichliebedich._ ”  
  
“Me too,” Steven grits the words out. “I—love you too, Helm.”  
  
They near the edge together at a frenetic pace, Helmut so consumed with sensation that he doesn’t know what experiences are his, and what he’s interpreting from Steven’s desperate grunts and groans. He no longer knows or cares if there is a difference. This is the culmination of everything he has ever wanted.  
  
Something inside of him is ripped open and words spill out—desperate proclamations. He cannot stop them as he draws near a place of perfect understanding.  
  
_“_ _Ich liebe alles an dir, Steven! Ich liebe deine Berührungen, intim und anderweitig! Ich liebe dich, wie ich noch nie zuvor jemanden in meinem Leben geliebt habe! Wie ich niemals jemand anderen lieben werde!”_ **[3]**  
  
Steven tries to silence him with a violent kiss, his tongue spearing deep into Zemo’s mouth. The confessions of love become muffled, garbled as Steven forcefully devours his words. And finally, _finally,_ the tide of language ceases as Helmut Zemo thrusts up into their joined hands one final time and looses a marvelous howl which Steven swallows down.  
  
Hot ejaculate splatters his chest in long bursts.  
  
Steven follows on the heels of Helmut’s orgasm. Helmut watches through slitted eyes, watches the way Steven’s face contorts as he stills, held up by his arms. The Captain lets out a long, low, desperate noise.  
  
He fills Zemo to bursting with his seed.  
  
And then he collapses onto Helmut and they are both covered in sweat and mess, slick between them and hot in the place their bodies are still joined.  
  
When they kiss, it is pure sweetness. It is good and right and everything Helmut has ever needed and never believed he deserved or could have.  
  
“I thought you might disappear,” Steven confesses, rolling with Helmut in his arms so they lie on their sides, still pressed together. Neither seems to care about the cooling mess between them. They kiss, sleepy and languorous. “Thought getting rescued from the Shadow Pillar was just a fantasy. Thought you were a just mirage. I won’t have you disappearing, Helmut.”  
  
His grip tightens possessively and all Helmut wants to do is soothe the Captain’s every worry.  
  
“ _Ich werde dich_ niemals _verlassen_ ,” **[4]** he swears.  
  
On his honor. On his house. He swears it.  
  


**  
[EPILOGUE]**

   
“Helmut,” Steven murmurs in Zemo’s ear a long, long while later. He carries with him the scents of jasmine and rich earth: the perfume of Greece in the afternoon. Instead of inspiring him to wakefulness, however, the aromas lull Helmut further into his dreams.  
  
Sleep surrounds him like a warm cloud and he is loath to pull himself from its comforting embrace. If armies approach, let them come, he will gladly face them—given one more hour of sleep.  
  
He feels Steven kiss his cheek.  
  
He dozes.  
  
“Helmut,” Steven says again, perhaps a minute later, perhaps an hour. He touches Zemo’s exposed face, tracing a path along the parts he’s learned—through trial and error—have the most sensation. It is nearly enough to rouse Helmut. _Nearly_. “I need you to wake up.”  
  
“No you don’t,” he argues, accusation in his grumbling tone. “You _need_ to come back to my bed. You should never have left.”  
  
“I went for a jog,” Steven explains in a pleasantly conversational way.  
  
“If you plan to share _my bed_ in the future, Herr Rogers,” Zemo continues as if Steven had not uttered a word, “you would do well to note that I require not only a specific _amount_ of sleep, but sleep of a certain _quality_.”  
  
“Oh, duly noted, Baron.”  
  
The next time Helmut awakes, it is to find Steven sitting in the open window, a notebook on his knee. His pencil makes little _scritch scritch_ noises as he sketches. The sun is slowly burning out of the sky, a wash of colors wreathing him in warm light. For a moment, Zemo just watches him, basking in the sight.  
  
How sentimental he’s grown since Steven first offered him friendship. It is a dangerous trait, caring as openly as he does, but he’s uncertain he could change it even if he wished.  
  
“Are you finally awake, Helm?”  
  
Helmut huffs and slowly pushes himself up, stretching lazily, “Perhaps.” After a few long moments filled only by the sound of Steven’s pencil, he asks, “What are you drawing?”  
  
“A bird,” he answers simply, which of course, lacks a particular quantity and, more, quality of information.  
  
Zemo stands and crosses the stone floor, discovering, with some surprise, that all the clothing he abandoned in the corridors is now neatly folded on the dresser. He can no more imagine Steven knowing how to properly care for clothing than he can picture a servant entering his occupied sleeping chambers uninvited. And yet, Steven says, without looking up, “I thought you might want those.”  
  
Steven’s pencil stills when Zemo comes to look, and he reaches out an arm, encircling Helmut’s bare waist and pulling him close.  
  
The subject on the page truly is but a bird. A fat little sparrow. Perfectly unremarkable.  
  
“You’ve a lovely slice of Grecian landscape outside the window and this is what you’ve chosen to draw?”  
  
Steven looks up at him, his smile complicated. “Helmut, I want to tell you a story…”  
  


* * *

  
  
When Steven is finished, Helmut marvels at how such a small thing could have given the man such grand hope.  
  
“I never thought to hear you speak of a bird with so great an affection,” Helmut says mildly. “You surely have named it? This bird?”  
  
“I didn’t,” Steven says after a moment and closes his eyes. “She was my only relief from the loneliness—other than thinking about you—and I was afraid naming her might make her presence too real, too easy to lose. But now that it’s over, and I know I’ll never lose either of you, I guess I’d call her... _Frei._ ”  
  
_Free._  
  
It is fitting.  
  
“You could have brought her with you,” Helmut says after a moment, uncertain how to conduct himself amid all this vulnerability.  
  
“No,” Steven denies, his smile unchanged. “I left her there for a reason.”  
  
“Oh?”  
  
Helmut is puzzled by the notion. Ascetic and spartan as his life is in many ways, he is unaccustomed with the idea of denying one’s deepest desires.  
  
“See, Helmut, when I get my hands around the False Captain’s throat, when he is utterly beaten and our men take him away in chains, I want him to have something to look forward to—I want to give him the same hope that was afforded me.” Steven runs his hand up Helmut’s back, along his shoulder and neck, and then he drops his pencil freeing his other hand to catch Zemo’s chin and pull him down into a kiss. Against Helmut’s lips he whispers bitterly, “And then I will rip her, and the hope she represents, away from him and he will truly understand _loss._ ”  
  
The kiss that follows is burning with dire promise.  
  
And Baron Zemo bares his teeth in a smile.  
  
~ Fin.  
  


 

[1] You are perfect.  
  
[2] I love you!  
  
[3] I love everything about you, Steven! I love your touch, intimate and otherwise! I love _you_ as I have never loved another in my life! As I shall never love another!  
  
[4]  I will _never_ leave you.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading the third, and final, part of the _I Don’t Know How My Heart Deceives Me_ Series. 
> 
> I’m even **MOAR** trash for Hydra!Stemo than I was when I first started.  <3
> 
> A special thanks to the lovely **[dnitegirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dnitegirl/profile)** —without you, I never would have *started* this series and my precious bird-namer **[MnM_ov_Doom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MnM_ov_Doom/profile)** —without you, I never would have *finished* it! **[Staubengel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Staubengel/profile)** and **[Bluethenstaub](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bluethenstaub)** are my German goddesses and answered a thousand questions about German  <3 And my whole heart goes to **[the_butcher_of_clay](https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_butcher_of_clay/profile)** for making everything I write 10,000 times better with his edits.
> 
> If you liked this, there's a new long-form Hydra!Stemo story ~~coming (hopefully!) soon.~~ called **_[But Then Someday Comes...](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15684306/chapters/36441423)_** that is a sequel to this series!
> 
> **Please, please, please consider leaving comments and kudos! I'm sailing on the itty bitty Hydra!Stemo ship and your feedback gives me life and purpose.**
> 
> You can find me on [Tumblr!](https://cosmo-is-beink-melon.tumblr.com)


End file.
